The Bachelor Takes a Bride. Brenda Harlen

      “Elena Luchetta’s granddaughter.”

      “We’ve got a lot of work to do before we can start thinking about hiring anyone,” he said with more patience than he felt.

      “But she’d be perfect,” Nonna insisted.

      “Because she’s Italian?”

      “Sì. And single.”

      He sighed. “You’ve got to stop dangling all of your friends’ granddaughters under my nose like they’re bait.”

      “I will when you finally snap one of them up,” she said unapologetically.

      “There’s no need for the boy to rush into marriage,” Salvatore defended.

      “I want great-grandbabies,” Caterina said.

      “You have six,” Marco reminded her.

      “No thanks to you,” she retorted.

      “What are your plans for the upper level?” Salvatore asked.

      Marco turned to him, grateful for the abrupt change of topic. “There are two bedrooms, a bathroom, small living area and kitchenette.”

      “Private entrance?”

      He nodded.

      “Could generate some rental income,” his grandfather noted.

      Marco had considered that possibility. “Or we could renovate it to offer private event rooms.”

      “We already do that.”

      He shook his head. “We host group events—bridal and baby showers, engagement and birthday parties. I was thinking of promoting the space for more intimate gatherings and private celebrations.”

      “Intimate and private sounds like what got this place shut down,” Salvatore warned.

      Marco choked on a laugh. “I was thinking of something like dinner for two—to celebrate wedding anniversaries or set the stage for marriage proposals.”

      Caterina sniffed. “What do you know about proposals?”

      “I know that if and when I finally meet the right woman, it would be nice to have a romantic—and private—setting in which to pop the question.”

      “Or to celebrate a sixty-fifth anniversary,” Salvatore said, lifting his wife’s hand to brush his lips over the back of it.

      “If we make it to sixty-five years,” she told him, a teasing glint in her eyes, “I don’t want a private dinner. I want a big party—una grande festa.”

      “And I want whatever you want,” her husband assured her.

      “Now who’s the suck-up?” Marco said.

      His grandfather just grinned.

      “So we’re going to put in an offer?”

      “If you’re really sure you want to do this,” Caterina said.

      “We’ve been planning it for two years,” he reminded her.

      “I know. I just wish...”

      “What do you wish?” he prompted gently.

      “That you didn’t have so much time to devote to this endeavor.”

      “I don’t understand,” he admitted. “Are you saying that you don’t want to expand?”

      “No—I’m saying that you need equilibrio in your life. Not just work, work, work all the time. You need romanticismo.”

      “Right now, I need to get in touch with the real estate agent,” he said.

      “And we need to get over to the restaurant,” Salvatore reminded his wife.

      Caterina nodded. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

      He bent down to kiss both of her cheeks, gave his grandfather a quick hug, then walked them to the door.

      Looking around the empty, dusty room, there was no denying that it needed a lot of work, but most of it was cosmetic. The wide storefront windows definitely needed a good cleaning, but he could already envision the gold-leaf lettering that would announce Valentino’s II.

      It was also easy to picture the concrete pad between the door and the sidewalk as a summer patio, with wrought iron tables and chairs, and he made a mental note to look into whatever permits would be required.

      Then she stepped into view, and everything else was forgotten.

      * * *

      Jordyn loved living in Northbrook. Almost everything that she wanted or needed was within walking distance, including Sweet Serenity Boutique & Spa, which is where she was heading for a mani/pedi appointment with her sisters. She enjoyed the monthly ritual they shared, not just for the pampering of her body but the time that it afforded them together.

      Because in addition to being her sisters, Tristyn and Lauryn were her best friends. They might not always agree on everything, but they always had one another’s backs. When Lauryn got married, Jordyn was her maid of honor; when Jordyn was planning her wedding, she’d asked Tristyn to be hers; and whenever Tristyn was ready to exchange vows, it was understood that Lauryn would fulfill the role for her. In the meantime, they each had their own lives and responsibilities but they made a point of spending time together as much as possible—which was easier for Jordyn and Tristyn, considering that they lived together, and why they planned a girls’ day with Lauryn at least once a month.

      Today they had planned to meet for brunch at the Morning Glory Café followed by manicures, pedicures and hot stone massages at Sweet Serenity. Because Jordyn had worked until closing at O’Reilly’s the night before, she’d opted to sleep in rather than join her sisters for brunch, promising to meet them at the spa at two o’clock.

      The window display of Zahara’s caught her eye and halted her steps. Though her wardrobe was usually simple and functional, she was a sucker for fun jewelry, and the dangling cherry earrings were calling to her. A quick glance at her watch assured her that she didn’t need to rush.

      Five minutes later, she walked out of the boutique with her silver hoops tucked into the zippered change compartment of her wallet and the red-and-green crystals sparkling at her ears. She might have resisted them if not for the fact that they went so perfectly with the cherry-red capris and simple white T-shirt she was wearing.

      “Hey, Jordyn.”

      She was just starting up the flagstone path to the entrance of the spa when she heard his voice behind her, and her heart started to race. Chastising herself for the frustrating and inexplicable reaction to his presence, she turned to face him.

      “Hi, Marco. What brings you to the neighborhood? Or is this your usual destination for manscaping?”

      He looked at her blankly. “What?”

      She pointed to the sign in the window offering manicures, pedicures, facials, hair removal and body treatments.

      To his credit, he recovered quickly, holding his hands out for her inspection. “Now that you mention it, I’m hoping to get something done about these ragged cuticles.”

      Except that there was nothing wrong with his hands. They were broad and tanned, his fingers long and lean, his nails clean and neatly trimmed.

      “Ask for Lori,” she suggested.

      “I’ll do that,” he promised, and his smile—quick and easy—made her knees feel weak. “Actually, I was just in the neighborhood on business.”

      She glanced across the street. “Business by any chance linked to the rumor about a new Italian restaurant opening up where Mykonos used to be?”

      “You don’t strike me as the type of person who would pay much attention to gossip.”

      “Which